A Childe by Blood
by atenala
Summary: Trapped in a failing body, a war veteran is offered a choice.


I apologize for any difficulty the misspellings cause; they are in-character and intentional.

**A Childe By Blood**

For a moment, it didn't matter to Arthur whether or not he lived to see the dawn. This glorious sunset, in this place, was all he wished for.

He stood at the crumbled west wall of what centuries ago was the proud Castle Denbigh, now a wreck of stone and masonry perched on high hill, with the village which bore its name clustered around the base like chicks seeking shelter under a hen's wing. But the chicks grew bold in the seven hundred years since the fortress was raised up, for now the village spread away through the valley. Now the huddled houses were cloaked in evening's shadow, and only the hum of an occasional car rose above the incessant whisper of the chill October wind. The sun had slipped below the clouds, dazzling him with its brilliance. Behind him, the sun burned the sandstone ruins to a golden red. He shivered in the brisk air. The mysterious tremors which plagued his once-sturdy frame weren't helped by the cold. That Arthur - few called him Art, for it never seemed to fit him - hadn't come prepared for the weather showed what a disorganized state his mind was in. But that was what months of physical and mental deterioration would do to you. He had thought to shave this morning, but his close-cropped, dark brown hair had grown out over the last few weeks.

A small car chugged up the road a few yards below - could it be him? The one who brought him to this dark corner of Wales? But Arthur heard it top the hill and speed up on the way down. He sighed, and dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn army jacket, wondering absently how he escaped the airport dressed in a military coat without questioning. He supposed he acted American enough to be cut some slack. They liked tourists enough to forgive a few questionable or even provocative tenancies.

The sun was nearly touching the distant hills. He savored its small warmth on his windburned skin, and watched the clouds set alight in its rays. The dying sun. He hoped his end, whatever it was, would be as beautiful, as peaceful. But he suspected that his life, like the day, would be a gradual darkening, a slow but inevitable slide into oblivion.

The sun touched the horizon. Time stretched, and it often did these days, and a minute's journey seemed eternal. It was only when the last sliver vanished that he realized what had happened. The demon he called dementia had tweaked his mind, altered his perception. Arthur smiled to himself. The curse of his corrupted body had given him one small, precious blessing, possibly the last he would know.

_ Where is that kid?_ The weary man had crossed the ocean to fulfill the bizarre request. Now it was up to Richard. _Where is he?_

**Excerpts from the diary of Arthur Montgomery**

March 18

. . . long day at the library, followed by a demoralizing stint at the doctors - the new tests were negative. They still have no idea what the problem is. They said they'll do a consult and decide what to try next.

Then it was back to the library. Fell asleep, and had to grab some fast food to get to fencing club on time.

Had a pretty good session today, eight or so students. Mark and Rob were learning epee, and everyone else practiced foils. There was a new guy there, just spectating. He looked like a freshman, and he had a British Accent (I think - could have been Australian). When I asked where he was from, he just said he was living in Maryland for the most part, but that he traveled a bit. He hung around while the others students were clearing out, so I went over to talk to him. His name was Richard. I asked if he'd ever fenced before, and he said he'd done a bit. So then I asked if he wanted to try a little light sparring, and he said he'd like that. I don't know where he learned to fence, but he was _terrible_. He didn't know what to do, his stance was atrocious, and nearly every move was a violation of at least one rule. He even knocked my blade aside with his _hand_. I think his teacher was Errol Flynn. After about a minute of this, I just gave up. Didn't say anything about it, just said something like "not bad for a start, maybe we can work on your form, got to go to a meeting now, see you later," got my equipment and got out of there. These kids think they know the sport; he looked like he couldn't decide between puzzled and smug. It just capped off a lousy day.

March 25

Revelation! This Richard kid knows nothing about the _sport_ of fencing; he's never done it before. Somehow he's stumbled onto the _real thing_!

It was a slow night; only four students came in. And Richard. I'd just finished sparring with Nate when I noticed some of the students were watching Richard. He was off to the side, playing with an epee and talking to one of the new guys. He was standing face-on, leaning forward, with his left hand even with his right - the same stance he used last time. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was showing the kid where the sport came from. When I asked him where he learned his form, he cited Agrippa, Marozzo, Silver, Di Grassi and some folks I've never heard of. And it dawned on me that he was a student of "real weapons" swordsmanship.

Right after practice I went to the library and did a search. Found several of the books (unfortunately, a couple were in the original language) and hit up interlibrary loan for some others. I thought I was pretty dedicated for skimming some of the 18th and 19th century fencing manuals. I don't know why it never occurred to me to look back beyond that. Perhaps because, besides being in a foreign tongue, they don't really help much with modern fencing - it's like two completely different styles.

Feeling almost giddy about this discovery. Of course, not sleeping last nigtht probably has something to do with it. If it happens again I'm going to ask Dr. Samuels for some sleeping pills.

March 30

Read through Clement's book on Renaissance fighting. It's all so clear - Richard must know this book by heart, he had the stances and the moves down almost perfectly. Clements is geared towards real-weapons swordplay, which is a far cry from what we practice. No wonder my mysterious visitor looked so odd.

April 1

. . .Practice was well attended, but Richard wasn't there. I was a little disappointed; I wanted to grill him about swordsmanship. Listen to me! The instructor wanting a lesson from a kid! But I guess you if you stop learning, you ossify. . .

April 7

Seems like coffee's the only thing that keeps me moving. But it's a trade off - it makes me shaky.

Let class go early today, ostensibly so they could use the time to work on their paper, but mainly so I could read through some of the weapons books that came in last week. Also to get away from folks - teaching's gotten to be a real straink, not that I don't like medieval ENglish history, but because I do't seem to have the energy for it anymore. By the end of the period I'm completely wiped.

Lost track of time again - okay, I nodded off - and who woke me but young Mr. Richard (I neglected to get his last name again). We talked for a good three hours. He has such a fascinating view of the middle ages; some ofh is points were a bit outlandish and without a shred of evidencet o back up his take on things,, but others seemed so logical. ID' love to reserch som of his theories, maybe see if he drew them from existing source but its all fuzzy and im just too damntired to to even see stratig.

May 6

Richard was at the meeting tonight. Afterwards we went for some coffee and talked half the night. I asked him if Clements was a major source, and he claimed he'd never heard of the man! But when I asked where he learned the sword, he evaded me, referring to old masters, both the ones I could find and a few others. I felt strange asking this of a kid, but I asked him to teach me a little of rapier fighting. He said he would, and in turn asked to borrow Mr. Clements. We set up Thursday nights to get together, although he said he was out of town alot and might not be able to make it.

May 14

Had another spell today. Got the shakes so bad that I had to sit down for a few minutes. Catherine Daniels came up to my office to express disappointment that I wouldn't be teaching the English history course next year. I think she was understanding; she says her uncle's in the same boat.

Went to the gym after dinner, and true to his word Richard was there. In addition to fencing gear, he had a pair of museum replica rapiers! Their points were blunted but he said they were necessary to get the proper feel for the style.

It took some getting used to - the footwork and moves are very different form Olympic Style - but I enjoyed it immensely. The blade was slower and heavier than I'm used to. Got pretty tired after a while, and my coordination went south on me. He seemed concerned and asked me what was wrong.

I don't know what possessed me to tell him anything. I've kept the war bottled up inside for so long, I guess I needed to let it out more than I thought. I told him everything. I described the heat and the sand, and the mad dash across the border. I described the twisted wreckage, the endless hordes of Iraqis with their hands in the air, the black clouds that turned day to night like a modern-day Mordor. I told him how I got a medical discharge four years later and became adjunct faculty at Kingston. And he seemed genuinely interested, and sympathetic. He did say something about having done some military time himself, and I believe him. Looks very young, though, but maybe he's just babyfaced. He was very interested in Gulf War Syndrome. He said that since the crusades, westerners have found suffering and death in the sands of "the Holy Land" (his words). Seemed pretty earnest about it, so I let it go.

May 20

. . .Practiced with the rapiers tonight. Richard said he was impressed with Clements: "He has done a good job with so little to go on." After practice we shot the bull, talked about school some, before going on another historical tangent. I really enjoy talking with him; he's the only person who forces me to stretch my brain a little - when it comes to history, anyway.

May 28

. . . I asked him why he didn't come to practice yesterday. He said he had "pressing business" in Baltimore. I guess I tried to pry but was diverted by some history questions. It's very strange. He seems to know alot more than me about medieval history, but has little interest in it. Oh, he answers my questions, and sometimes "corrects" me when I venture my take on events, but when he asks questions they're usually about the 18th century onward. The founding of America, Manifest Destiny, Napoleon, the Civil War, and so on. This guy could be a PhD in middle ages history, but his knowledge of later periods is about what you'd expect from a high schooler.

June 4

. . .Had another practice session with Richard. It's amazing what he knows. I suppose the skeptic side of me wonders how much he got from original sources and how much he made up. After all, most of the sources I've read are a little vague on the maneuvers. Still, everything he shows me seems to work. I envy his stamina. He can run through a long series of moves over and over without even breathing hard; these days, I have to take a rest after about ten minutes. This is much more athletic than fencing.

June 25

. . .told her in no uncertain terms how I hate hospitals. But the doc is probably used to that kind of treatment, and she just let it slide off her. She said she wanted to keep me a couple more ours to make sure I didn't see anything or anybody who wasn't supposed to be there. I think she would have preferred to keep me overnight, but that was a battle she didn't want to fight. Having no more hallucinations, I was discharged, and went home to celebrate with some frozen chicken and a side of microwave fries.

Got a letter from Richard. He said that due to pressing business he wouldn't be able to go practice for a while, but he would like to continue correspondence. He's got a P.O. box in Washington D.C. I'll write him tomorrow.

July 3

. . . but the day improved markedly when I found a thick envelope in the box. Richard wished me a happy Independence Day, and used the subject to ask me questions about the Seven Years War and the War of Independence. It's a little odd, the questions he asked - he didn't have more than a basic idea of what it was all about, and after the last letter when he compared with great detail the English Civil War with the War of the Roses and the baronial uprising that led to the Magna Carta. Speaking of M.C., he asked for that discussion of democracy that I promised him a month ago. While he claims to be in favor of it on some level, he strikes me as something of a monarchist. No, I think "aristocrat" would be more suitable. . .

August 5

Got a note that Otis Cosby died last week. I called Jackson, who was visiting Otis in the VA. He said all his systems just started shutting down. He was the first of my platoon to die since the Gulf (Except for Alphano's car wreck and Ruder's drowning). Jackson didn't recognize the jargon the doctors used, but Cosby apparently had some degenerative disease that's almost unheard of in people under about seventy. It bothered me a lot, I suppose - enough to put it in the letter to Richard.

August 8

Finally finished the reply to Richard. I'm glad I don't watch TV anyway, because I spend so much time with my nose stuck in reference books to make sure my facts are straight. I half-jokingly suggested we should publish this correspondence as a history text.

August 15

. . .Got another letter from Richard today. I think I touched a sore spot with him when I (briefly) mentioned the Scottish uprising in 1745. He was critical of the Scottish tactics as I expected he would be, but he was very critical of the English politics that led to the fight, something I hadn't expected. In dozen or so letters, he's never sounded quite so bitter about the affair, and more to the point, his reasons for feeling that way are quite pretty vague. Usually he's much better grounded in facts. But a full page and a half of the letter was devoted to the rebellion, lambasting the Bonnie Prince, English arrogance and Scottish stupidity. He's gotten passionate about things in our discussion, but the letters rarely show that kind of heat. I'm not sure whether I should just gloss over the subject or ask press the issue. I value this correspondence, and his friendship, immensely - if it bothers him so much, I think I'll take discretion over valor and wait a while before bringing it up again.

August 24

Got a new symptom to tell the doctor next time I go in. I had weird sort of time lapse. I was driving pretty slow Amhurst Road this morning. The car didn't seem to have any pickup. So I keep speeding up and speeding up, and then I see a Camero driving so slow he looks like he's parked in the road. I glanced down at the speedometer and it reads 95! Thinking I might be hallucinating the dashboard, I slowed down and pulled over. And everybody who passed me looked like they were going 30. My perception of time was just slowed way down (or speeded way up, depending on how you look at it). I think I would have been more scared, but it was just so bizarre that I didn't know what to think about it. On second though, I won't wait for the doctor, I'm going to the library to do some more research on the net.

Sept 16

Today was my last evening as head of the fencing club. It was as hard as I expected. I could tell the students were doing their absolute best for me. I've never seen them put so much energy into their work; I think some of the were flat out showing off for me. I'm proud of them all. For the first time in months, Dr. Clarke from the Kendo class came by to watch the practice. I heard from a student he had canceled an appointment or something to come. At the end of the meeting, Christine was in tears, and most of the rest - even dour Jim! - was misty-eyed. I must admit I was too. Resigning from the club was hardest part of the leaving the university.

September 24

Another shitty day. The reason I had no entry for yesterday is because I don't remember any of it. When I saw the date this mornig I nearly panicked. I couldn't remember anthingn about Wednesday. Thinking back, I honestly think I slept through the entire day. I called Jackson, and he said other vets have reported the same thing, and worse. He's been having hallucinations lately, and his joints re becoming inflamed. But his mood is still good. "Nuthin but a thang," as he likes to say,

Went back to the VA for another checkup. Dr. Samuel took some samples of the skin on my shoulder. He said I shouldn't worry too much, but he thinks it may be precancerous. Early enough tot reat at any rate. As to the inflammation of my hand, he said he's concerned that it's not responding to any treatments. He said he would like to bring in a specialist, which in doctorspeak means "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you."

Diddnt have any coffee today, but I still have the tremors to some degree. And Im even tireder than usual. I looke back at my old journals and nearly creid. In '88 I would fill a page or two in a day, with detailed descriptiogn - and that was handwritten1 Now I can barely get throuhg a couple paragraphs. I just get so damn tired and shaky. I sometimes qish I'd taken a bullet in the desert,,instead of dying slowly over the coruse of a decade.

September 28

I got a crazy letter today from Richard. He asked me to travelll to Britain, to a little town in Wales. Even said hes sending a plane ticket. A hell of a thing to ask,, and I dont think it's just for a vacation.

What does have in store? A miracle cure for GWS? I noticed he said he was sending "the ticket" not the "tickets". Does he plan to end my wretched life "for my own good?" There would be a certakin amountg of poetry in that, dying in the lands where my ancestors once lived.

I don't know if I''m going or not What am I saying, of course I'm going. Besides, it's probably the last chance I'll ever be able to travel abroad again. And whatever happnes, its got to be better than rotting here.

_Arthur,_

_We have know each other barely half a year, but I consider you a dear friend and a kindred spirit, and I hope you feel likewise. I know not how you will take this, but I pray our new-found friendship means enough for you to do a great favor for me._

_You must travel to Denbigh, a town in the north of Wales. There you will walk to the ruined castle there where - and this is most important to me - you will watch the sun set upon the western hills. My travels have spanned Europe, but the setting sun against the castle walls remains a vivid memory of my distant youth; I beg you savor that vision as I cannot. After that, you will receive a visitor, namely myself._

_The ticket and necessary vouchers will be arriving to you shortly. Though I can not tell you why, this will be the most important choice of your life._

_R_

Like the dying embers of a winter campfire, the ruddy western light dimmed. The billowed ceiling fractured in the wind, revealing brilliant pinpricks in the sky. Arthur turned up his collar - scant protection that it offered - and rested his hands on the stone wall, feeling the barely perceptible warmth the sun's rays had afforded it. It was in this moment that he sensed he was not alone.

Richard was there, his black hair whipping unfettered in the wind. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his black jeans, boots and jacket. But even in the twilight, Arthur could see the sword, larger and heavier than a rapier, hanging from his hip. Arthur felt a shudder pass through him at the sight.

"You've come." Richard's words were low, but they cut through the fitful wind effortlessly. Arthur, unsure what to do, nodded. "What did you think of the sunset?" The man in black asked.

"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And at that moment he realized he meant it.

Richard nodded slowly, then turned. They crossed the green courtyard to the dark hulking gatehouse.

"This isn't the first castle in Denbigh, you know," said Richard as they went. "The Welsh had their own stronghold in this vicinity. Then the Normans built a small motte-and-bailey castle in this valley, but it was brought down in time. William Mortimer, second Earl of Denbigh, built a stone castle on this very hill. Not so grand as this one, but impressive enough." He led the man up spiraling stairs into the ravaged shell of the keep.

"There were battles fought beneath these ramparts which no history book mentions. The bones the thousands who have fallen in this valley, the grass has long since smothered." The Englishman vaulted over a railing, landing on the eastern curtain wall. "So many men, Welsh, English, Norman, all dust. Only the skeleton of this fortress has outlasted them all."

Arthur struggled to keep his balance on the slick stone steps. When he reached the top, his breathing was a little labored.

"Forgive me, friend. I had forgotten your illness."

"It's all right. I'm used to it." Arthur hid his bitterness, but not well enough.

"No. You are anything save 'used to it.' This sickness has sapped your body, but has not your will or your mind. It is a cruel disease." In a quiet voice, he added, "I may be able to help you."

Arthur said nothing until he could breathe normally. Well, he'd been right - Richard was offering him a miracle cure. But he knew now there was no such thing, and any hopes he raised would be dashed all the harder.

"What's the catch?"

"The most trying, I have found, is never watching another sunset. The rest is bearable."

"The cure is death?"

"After a fashion."

"Well, at this point I'm about ready have it all end, but I'd just as soon not have any help from you."

"I think you misunderstand. You'll see no more sunsets, but with luck you will see an eternity of nights. With your death, you will become immortal."

"What, you'll make me a vampire?" Arthur said in a weak jest, but the words froze on his lips.

"As a matter of fact, that was my intention." Richard smiled; a hint of fang gleamed in the dim light.

"Just who are you, Richard? _What_ are you?" He fought to keep himself upright, willing his tremors to stillness.

Richard raised himself to his full height. "I was born Richard Mortimer, son of William Mortimer, _First_ Earl of Denbigh. My father won this land by the sword; my uncle kept it by the even hand of justice. In this very valley, in a castle long gone to dust, I became what you see before you. For hundreds of years, we were the secret lords of the Marches. As to what I am. . . by your face you have some idea already. My kind have not been forgotten, I see."

Perhaps his madness had dulled the fear he knew he should feel. Perhaps his spirit had been conquered, and he secretly welcomed death. Perhaps Richard was a hallucination. Whatever the reason, the tremors had subsided and he was calm. "So you mean to kill me."

"That I could have done the day we met, my friend. No, I have a gift for you, should you accept it." He looked northward at the sleepy village which once looked to him for protection. "After eight hundred years, I feel the need to share my blood, to create another of my kind. In this age, I have found none worthy to my first born, as it were. Until now." He looked turned back to Arthur, who saw an unnatural gleam in the vampire's eyes. "In you I see a part of myself: a warrior, a scholar, a leader whose weapons are the pen and the sword, a man who wants to defend the light of the world by fighting darkness. A soldier wearied by constant struggle. I offer you the strength to carry on the struggle, the strength which burns within the noble blood of my Clan. By dying and being reborn to the night, you will gain a power unimaginable."

"Sounds like a devil's bargain," Arthur ventured.

Richard smiled. "I wore the cross long before my Becoming, and long since. Some may say I'm damned, but I'm no pawn of Lucifer."

"And if I refuse your offer?"

"There is another option. You would become my servant, bound to me for as long as you live. I do not know if you body would be purged of the sickness, but your strength will return, at least somewhat. But I cannot let you go. You know more than safety permits."

"And if I accept, will you tell everything? What it was like, what really happened, things the historians can only guess at?"

"You will know what not even kings and bishops could guess - the true history of the world in ages gone. For we were kingmakers, watching from the shadows. And if you join us, you can once again be a leader of men - for we are in the midst of a centuries-long struggle, and such as you are needed."

Arthur looked to the west. Only the barest trace of dark color remained where the sun had fled. He smelled woodsmoke on the frigid air. To his right stood the shattered walls of the great gatehouse, and some part of him wondered what it had looked like seven centuries ago. What would it feel like to have lived seven centuries? Can a human do so and not go mad? Richard seemed sane - as sane as someone could be, who called himself a vampire. What should he do, accept the offer of conditional immortality, or try to escape that fate? Death awaited the latter; would a fate worse than death dog the former?

Long moments passed. The cold ate into Arthur's bones, bringing chills and the slowing of thought. He had to make a decision, and quickly. It was clear to him that Richard would not wait another night for an answer. But was it really his choice? The ancient knight had already chosen him. Why? Without looking back at his friend, he asked, "Why did you choose me? Surely there are a m-million people who would suit you b-better. Why me?"

"For all the reasons I have said. . . and one more." Richard paused a moment before continuing. "While I was mortal I conceived a single child. Young William was my only heir. I watched him grow to proud manhood. His children lived in fame or infamy, and I followed their progress for some centuries. In the past year I have strived to reacquaint myself with the progress of my line. I could be certain of a few dozen; I found you among them. Of all of them, you are most worthy."

Arthur looked at the vampire. Richard stood on the catwalk, as utterly still and impassive as the stone beneath his feet. His eyes kindled with a red eyeshine.

"What say you?" the vampire asked Arthur.

_ What say I? Damn good question._ But he was right, his choices had been narrowed because of Richard's choice. Now he could only choose student or servant. He knew of one or two historians who would sell their souls to learn what this knight could teach - would he? Another spasm shook him, and the world swam a moment. That decided the issue. Those historians weren't on their way to becoming invalids at 35.

"Yes. I accept."

Richard stepped up to him, put his arms around him. He felt the sharp stabbing pain in his neck, but his cry of pain became a gasp of joy. His captor's arms were like steel, immovable, but Arthur hardly noticed. The unparalleled ecstasy he felt as his whole world shrank to the contact point at his throat consumed him as he blood was being consumed.

He was dimly aware of his limbs growing cold. His rapid pulse grew thready in his ears. He tried to inhale, to speak, but the air wouldn't come. Richard's voice, speaking in gibberish - no, French or Latin - faded with all other sounds. He felt himself rising gently towards the sky. . . the brilliant stars winked out one by one. . .

Liquid flame gushed into his open mouth, exploding in his core before spreading throughout his numbed body; pinpricks tingled every cubic inch, from his toenails to the roots of his hair. He shuddered at the exquisite agony.

His senses returned in a rush - something was pressed to his mouth. The smell! It was the aroma of roasted meat and a hot loaf to a starveling, or the smell of woodsmoke to one dying in the snow. It was the scent of sweet water to man burning in the desert, or the tang of strong drink to a drying-out alcoholic. He pulled at the arm with all his might, taking more and more of the precious drink. He felt the vitality of the precious fluid fill him, washing away all fatigue. Vaguely, he heard Richard's voice.

"From Child of Man to Childe of Caine."

Arthur realized that he was laying with his back against the stone walkway. He flexed his limbs one by one; they were cold, but felt more powerful than they had since the war. He jumped up, and with the power he commanded he found he had leaped a foot in the air. He landed with no pain, no disorientation. Then his sire's chuckle focused his attention. Richard was smiling again, but his features were clearer now.

"First of our lineage was Brujah, grandchilde of Caine the Kinslayer and founder of our Clan. Brujah begat Dorius who spent his breathing days in the land of Hellas; he in turn sired Don Diego Francisco del Rivera, who gave his blood to William Mortimer, Earl of Denbigh, as he returned from the Holy Land. William in turn shared the dark gift with his brother and his children, including myself. And now I have shared it with you, Arthur Montgomery." He drew the sword as he continued. "May that blood grow powerful and purposeful within you. May God grant you the blessings of the Children of Caine, and the will and wisdom to use them." The flat of the blade rested on one shoulder, then the other, and finally Arthur's forehead. Still stunned, Arthur shivered again, not from illness or cold, but because he was beginning to grasp that something truly momentous was occurring to him.

"You are now one of the Kindred." Richard sheathed the blade, and guided a mentally-reeling Arthur Montgomery along the wall. "Walk with me," he said, we have much to discuss."

_Fin_


End file.
